


eyes on fire, your spine is ablaze

by cardinalrisk



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Consensual sex under the influence, M/M, Smoking, Smut, escort!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 19:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18017339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrisk/pseuds/cardinalrisk
Summary: Because Zitao had always loved winning, even more so when it came to Chanyeol.





	eyes on fire, your spine is ablaze

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:**  Escort!zitao, alcohol consumption, smoking, consensual sex whilst under the influence, sexual content including; d/s dynamics, brief public groping, minor breathplay, collar play. daddy is used once in passing in a non-sexual setting. 

 

There’s a relentless buzzing coming from the streetlight above Zitao, tapering off every few seconds when the bulb fails, making way for the steady tap of rain against the steel overhang he’s huddled under before it flickers back to life, the artificial buzz making him grit his teeth, nails leaving crescents in the palms of his hands.

Half an hour had passed since he had received the call that led him to the familiar side alley. It had been quiet, a storm rolling in and settling itself for a long stay, briefly catching a glimpse of a head of dark curls slipping back into the darkness of the sombre night before he had tucked himself in a corner with chattering teeth. The air was frigid, seeping deep into his skin, the leather jacket he wore serving to do no more than weigh heavy on weary bones. He fumbles with an unlit cigarette, fingers digging deep to clasp around the cool metal of his lighter, breaths coming out in small puffs of condensation as he fits it between chapped lips.

“I thought you said you were quitting.” A harsh voice states, the usual rasp that little bit more defined, that little bit more sickly.

Zitao breathes out a short laugh, attempting to light his cigarette two, three times before the flame finally catches, eyes sliding shut momentarily. “I thought you were meant to be here twenty minutes ago.”

The silence that follows seems to stretch on, pressing down, lingering. Yet it only lasts for a few seconds, time had always been so distorted for Tao he could no longer tell the difference. He starts at the fingers that press into the nape of his neck, refusing to melt back into the familiar touch and instead using a pointed elbow to push himself away from the hold, taking in a deep drag as the light above them once again threatens to go out, leave them in darkness.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, voice soft but firm, head tilting back, emptying his lungs. “You don’t get to touch me like that Chanyeol, not anymore.”

The words are ignored, hands instead falling to Zitao’s waist, twisting him around and pressing him back against the rough brick of the wall, the eyes that stare down at him unyielding. Yet the grip is weak, even as Chanyeol pretends it isn’t, attempts to press into his skin deeper, ignores the heavy bags underlining his eyes. “How much worse has it gotten?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” There’s malice lining his words and Zitao doesn’t let himself react to the way Chanyeol flinches.

Chanyeol’s jaw is set stubbornly, ebony strands falling loose from where they’re slicked back and Zitao allows his eyes to wander down, lips pressing into a thin line as he spots the red band printed around Chanyeol’s wrist, hands gripping onto the material of Chanyeol’s jacket. “You’ve been diagnosed.” He breathes out, a small, bitter laugh leaving his lips as he shakes his head, turning it away as Chanyeol noses at his jaw. “That’s why you brought me here, to tell me you’ve finally been caught?”

“Don’t.” Chanyeol echoes. And he’s insistent, cold lips pressing to Zitao’s, desperate in his approach, weak in his movements.

Zitao remains indifferent.

 

♔

 

Zitao’s lips are curled up in a small, charming smile, tuning in a quiet laugh as those around him chuckle at something one of the older ministers said, taking a small sip from his glass of champagne as he pretends to listen. The conversation is easy, expensive bubble continuing to flow, yet there’s something lingering in  the air, a thick tension that you can almost taste on the tongue and Zitao tugs discreetly at collar of his charcoal dress shirt, Adam's apple bobbing.

He’s dressed to the nines, blond hair slicked back, kohl lining sharp eyes and gold adorning his fingers. Made to fit the atmosphere of these events with his dominating presence, drawing eyes whether he wants them or not. His gaze wanders, eyes catching those of ones already watching him. She’s pretty, soft featured, silky brunette locks pinned up, but she’s not what he’s here for. He gifts her with a smile and nothing more.

The event is full of men with the sort of money they don’t know what to do with, the type that have six billion won cars lined up in their sons garages, three grand watches for each new day of the week, and Zitao is basking in the sheer display of power it is, eager to sink his teeth in and __take__. But he’s on a job tonight, payment already waiting in his bank account, a promise of something prettier if he pulls it off waiting for him back at home.

He takes a detour to the bathroom, more of a way to pass the time than anything, because Zitao already knows he looks good, desirable, doesn’t need a mirror to remind himself, but enjoys looking nonetheless. He adjusts his cufflinks, gold, expensive, glinting in the light, fixes his tie and flashes himself a smile. Perfect.

He exits four minutes later, careful with his timing so he’s walking out when his client – Junmyeon – finishes the spiel Zitao had made him recite until the words had been ingrained to memory, rewarding him with his lips around his cock on the drive over. His lips were still red, deliciously tender from the rushed job, the elder’s taste still lingering on his tongue.

Junmyeon catches his gaze and sends him an award winning smile, his lips curled smug and Zitao can’t ignore how good it looks on him, playing the role of Junmyeon’s pretty lover when he saunters over, lazy smirk fitted onto his features when Junmyeon rests an arm around his waist, fingers smoothing over Zitao’s hip. It’s a power play, having Zitao at his side, pliant and tone velvety smooth, someone so young, so __pretty__. Even if Junmyeon didn’t necessarily need it, Zitao could understand. The thrill of having someone to order around, telling them to bend this way and that. It was hot, addicting, dangerous even.

But Zitao played the role so easily, so willingly.

“How’d it go?” Zitao swipes two full wine tubes off a passing waiter, pressing one to Junmyeon’s waiting hand the same moment he leans down to brush his lips over Junmyeon’s ear.

“Perfect. Their company was drowning and I just threw them a life jacket.” Junmyeon murmurs, barely tilting his head when he takes a delicate sip. “With a few understandings of course, I’m not quite __that__ nice. And, as agreed, the band system we discussed will officially go live next week.”

Zitao chuckles, low enough to tease, make Junmyeon’s grip on his waist tighten. “Proud of you daddy.”

“Mm, you can prove that later.” And there’s an edge to Junmyeon’s voice that Zitao knows promises nothing good. That makes him whine low in his throat and duck his head, fall smaller in Junmyeon’s grip. “I know he’s waiting for you Zitao. Go.”

Their eyes lock, the unspoken words loud and clear. __Remember your rules__.

“I’ll be home later.” Zitao says, quiet.

Junmyeon hums, curls his hand around the back of Zitao’s neck, pressing his fingers in until Zitao has to bite down on his lip to stop a moan. The elder smiles, grip loosening and whispering over the skin with a gentle caress, the last thing Zitao gets before he’s turning away and leaving Zitao alone.

  
  


♕

  
  


Chanyeol is the opposite of Junmyeon. Taller, leaner, younger, less controlled. He’s waiting in a hummer outside, windows tinted, unsubtle with his flashy display of wealth. He isn’t one to smooth things over with introductions, play the gentleman, instead waits for Zitao to slide in, straighten the lapels of his jacket before pressing him into the seat, licking his way into his mouth, letting hands wander until Zitao is flushed and needy.

It hadn’t always been like this, not at the beginning. The first time Chanyeol had hired Zitao, it had been for the same reason most of his clients had; a way to show off. Only Chanyeol hadn’t been a one-off, had called a second time, a third soon after. Soon it became less of a way to show off and more about the sounds he could make Zitao make, how much Zitao could take. And there was a certain finesse about it, the way Chanyeol took, gave nothing back until he chose to do so.

He does it now, too. Works Zitao up until he deems him fit and then withdraws, makes idle conversation during the rest of the ride. A game of sort, Zitao supposes, and he’s always been all too willing to play.

They end up at a club, and Zitao knows from the name that it’s one Chanyeol owns, watches the easy way he falls into conversation with one of the bouncers while he palms Zitao’s ass, ignores the strained smile Zitao wears. It goes like this for a little while, a build-up that Zitao refuses to fold under, stealing back some control when he wanders off to dance, ending up pressed between two men, eager and controlling. He does that for a while, waits until one whispers about how he wants to take him home, fuck him pretty, before he excuses himself with a sultry smile and wave of his fingers.

He drinks after that, not enough to knock him stupid, but to get himself buzzing, mixes it with the building arousal, the excitement that had begun early in the night, followed him from one man to another. And he’s not sure who’s winning anymore when it’s Chanyeol that drags him onto the dancefloor, presses them together until Zitao’s back is pressed tight to Chanyeol’s chest, able to feel the hard outline of the taller man’s cock as he grinds against the swell of Zitao’s ass.

The challenge makes Zitao’s lips curl, resting his hands over where Chanyeol’s larger hands frame his hips before he rolls, slow and purposeful, spine arching and the cleft of his ass dragging along the length of the others cock. He revels in the stuttered gasp pressed to the hot skin of his neck, uses the easy control of his hips to bring Chanyeol higher and higher, rock himself back with each mind-numbing pulse of bass. And it’s addicting, the rush of power, heat, when Chanyeol sinks his teeth into his neck, marks him pretty, tells him to get upstairs.

Because Zitao had always loved winning, even more so when it came to Chanyeol.

They stumble over each other in order to get to Chanyeol’s office, each press of lips dirty, demanding. Zitao presses Chanyeol to the door the moment it’s closed, flicks the lock before he sends the elder a pretty little smirk, drops to his knees. He lets Chanyeol work his belt open while he slides his hands over Chanyeol’s thighs, keeps his fingers just shy of where he needs it most. He watches with keen eyes as Chanyeol pulls black leather free, fingers already hooking through the belt loops on his pants to tug them down. He lets them bunch around Chanyeol’s thighs, just enough room for Zitao to pull his cock free, curl his fingers around the base.

Zitao isn’t quite willing to give in yet though, leaning in to press fleeting kisses to the exposed strip of skin where Chanyeol’s shirt rides up, teeth teasing at the skin. But then there’s leather being looped around his neck, hard and insistent, pulling a ragged moan from the back of his throat. “Behave,” Chanyeol growls, voice rough, fuelling the fire burning hot through Zitao’s veins. He had assumed it to be the belt, something they had done before, but there’s fingers at his chin, tilting his head back in order to catch Chanyeol’s eye. There’s an unspoken question there, leather pressing in that little bit more, and __oh__. His breath catches, and __yes, yes, oh please__.

Chanyeol smiles, and it’s almost fond, soft- too much. He closes his eyes instead, throat bobbing when Chanyeol’s fingers work, the cold metal of a buckle contrasting against the heat of his skin enough to make him moan, strain against the inseam of his pants. It’s a comforting weight, familiar, eyes fluttering open when Chanyeol pulls on the small loop, makes his breaths come that little bit shorter. This time he parts his lips willingly, lets Chanyeol feed him his cock until his mouth is stretched pretty, guide the pace with the fingers looped through his collar.

And Zitao could stay like this, let Chanyeol fuck his throat raw and leave him hard and desperate, jaw aching. Almost craves the humiliation that would come with it. Isn’t entirely sure it isn’t exactly what Chanyeol plans to do.

“Want me to come down your throat, pretty Taozi?” Chanyeol hums, trying for nonchalant, but voice too wrecked for much affect. “Or do you want me to paint your face with it?”

Chanyeol yanks him off, gives him enough time to suck in a stuttered breath. “Second,” he moans, voice breaking. “Want your come all over me, please.”

“Keep sucking then,” Chanyeol growls, yanks to tilt Zitao’s head back that little bit more before he fucks into Zitao’s mouth, sends him reeling with each harsh jerk of his hips.

Chanyeol is heavy on his tongue, thick on his senses, narrowing everything down until it’s all he can think about, all he needs, minutes feeling more like seconds. His fingers grip, find jutting hipbones to press bruises into, a broken mantra of Zitao’s name falling from Chanyeol’s lips.

“God, your mouth,” Chanyeol hisses, fucks forward three, four more times. “Close your eyes.”

Zitao does, swallows a moan and keeps his lips parted when Chanyeol pulls back, able to hear the filthy slide of the elder’s fist over his own cock. The hand holding him still drops, fingers curling around his neck and squeezing once. Zitao offers no resistance, simply takes in another quick, sharp breath before Chanyeol’s hand is pressing down, cutting it off halfway and leaving him hanging somewhere between ecstasy and panic.

It’s with a groan, Zitao’s name drawn out in a husky drawl, that Chanyeol comes, hips fucking into the tight circle of his hand to ride it out. He stains Zitao’s skin with it, the high of his cheeks, the swollen swell of his lower lip. They both know his safe code, but Chanyeol releases him before he can raise his hand, slumps back against the wall and watches Zitao drag in the oxygen he had been deprived of, the way his throat works when he swallows.

“Good boy,” Chanyeol praises, thumb dragging through the mess on his cheek before he drops it down to Zitao’s lips, his tongue sliding out lazily to lick it clean. The elder smiles, rubbing his thumb over Zitao’s lip fondly before moving to hook his fingers through the hoop on Zitao’s collar and tug him up.

Zitao’s knees are aching, barely keeping him up when he follows the pull of Chanyeol’s hand clumsily, nuzzling into the hand that attempts to clean the come off his face. But Zitao is still aching, pathetically hard as he ruts forward, gasps out a quiet plea. Chanyeol soothes him with a gentle hand, holds his hips steady as he shifts against the wall, hikes his thigh up.

“Ride my thigh baby,” he keeps one hand on Zitao’s hip, the other cradling his cheek when Zitao presses his face in the crook of Chanyeol’s shoulder, soft sob pressed to the material of his shirt when he does as he’s told, “come on, you’ve been such a good boy. I’ll let you come tonight.”

Zitao is so desperate to obey, rocking forward with the help of Chanyeol’s hand that slides from his hip to his ass, takes a firm grip, chasing the friction that shouldn’t be enough, __isn’t__ enough. But Zitao knows it’s all he gets, makes it enough.

“I love you,” the words are enough, really. Make Zitao gasp, rip through the lower skin of his lip when he bites down, grinds it out with jerky movements. And he knows he’s going to regret it in minutes, when the come begins to cool, dry. Later too, when Junmyeon punishes him for wrecking his good clothes.

The thought of Junmyeon is what knocks him out of the haze, still barely coherent with the haze of his orgasm. “That’s not fair.”

“I know.”

Zitao’s lips purse, reluctant to move even though he knows he should, that he needed to. They stay like that for a few minutes instead, let the heighted thump of their pulses slow, the sweat on their skin to dry. Zitao feels sticky and uncomfortable when he finally moves away, loose-limbed and tired.

“You need to stop doing that.”

He can feel Chanyeol’s eyes on him, his back turned to the elder as he smooths his hair down, attempts to adjust his pants. “Why?”

“You know why,” Zitao says quietly, fiddling with the buckle at his throat until it slides free. He drops it on the edge of the desk with a muffled thump, squaring his shoulders before he turns back around. “You always have.”

“Are you telling me you don’t? Or is that Junmyeon?”

“Your times up,” Zitao says sharply, fixing Chanyeol with an indifferent gaze until he moves away from the door. “You know the bosses number if you need me again.”

Chanyeol laughs, something malicious in the dark of his eyes when he flicks the lock, opens the door for him. “Tell Junmyeon I said hello.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Oh, and Zitao?”

He inhales sharply, the condescending lilt to the others voice making reckless anger flare. “What?”

He catches Chanyeol’s grin out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll see you soon.”  
  
---


End file.
